Sunday, December 16, 2012

Chapter One

Brandishing a baseball bat like an exclamation mark, Mehemet Abdul Rahman eased open the large, brass-studded, Zanzibar door to his house and stepped into the dead of night. Against this stretch of the Somali coastline the Indian Ocean was windless and hushed, gently beating the shore beyond the perimeter of his compound. Apart from his wife, children and servants asleep indoors, there was not another soul for miles in either direction. Nothing stirred, though he was certain he’d heard something. A trespasser, someone who was presently hiding in the mottled shadows of twisted juniper, palm and aloes draped across his garden.

He held his baseball bat with both hands, as though expecting a sudden curve ball from an unseen pitcher, all the while knowing it was of little use against an assassin armed with an AK-47. There was a loaded .38 snub nose tucked into the back of his pajamas, but he believed he stood a better chance if he appeared unarmed to the intruder. He would duck and roll out of the line of fire the instant he heard a charging handle being released.

Although in his mid fifties Mehemet was in good physical shape, well-built, of medium height, and with a full head of dark hair. As he crept through the shadows, his distinct Roman nose caught the gleam of his garden lights, though it was his sense of hearing he was most relying on. A twig snapped. He dropped the bat, reached around, grabbed his pistol, released the safety and aimed it at the shadows. “Who is it? Who goes there?”

“Mehemet,” came a frightened voice, “It is I, Abdu Takar.” An elderly, lanky, bearded man with his hands raised above his turban stepped into the light. Mehemet recognised him at once as one of the Majeerteen elders to whom his wife deferred during clan disputes.

“Abdu?” cried Mehemet, replacing his gun into the back of his pajamas, “What the hell are you doing creeping around outside my house in the middle of the night?”

“I’ve come to warn you, my friend. You are in very grave danger. Assassins are on their way from the Yemen to kill you. You must leave Puntland this very night.”

“Whose assassins?”

“Al-Qaeda’s.”

“Who told you this?”

“That’s not important. We know it to be reliable information. Al-Qaeda fighters are on their way here now by boat from the Arabian Peninsula, with the intention of killing you.”

As a naturalized American who had lived for the past decade and a half in Puntland, Somalia’s semi-autonomous state, no one was more aware than Mehemet Abdul Rahman of the radical elements on both sides of the Gulf of Aden that had begun infiltrating the region. He was the infidel in their midst, an obstacle to their unscrupulous designs. Mehemet turned back towards the house, but Abdu caught him by the shoulder. “You cannot fight them, my friend. You must leave.”

“I must protect my wife and children!”

“It is you they want. We will see to it Khadija and the children are protected.” Mehemet pulled himself away from Abdu and went straight back into his house to where his wife lay sleeping in their bed.

“Khadija,” he whispered, gently stroking her coffee-coloured hair that was spread out across her pillow like a splash. “Khadija. Wake up.” She stirred, turned slowly to gaze at her husband with a smile. Mehemet turned on the bedside lamp and Khadija squinted in the sudden burst of light.

“What is it, my love?” she croaked.

“You’ve got to go, Khadija,” he said.

Her Somali features were childish - full lips, doe eyes, elfin nose - but as she became aware of what he was saying, they quickly formed into a frown. “Go where?” she asked.

“It’s not safe here,” said Mehemet opening the cupboard where he kept his M-60 assault rifle. He hesitated upon seeing the weapon but grabbed an already packed black duffel bag instead, into which he stuffed his pistol.

She sat bolt upright. “I don’t understand...”

“You and the children must get away from Bender Siyaada tonight,” he said, quickly changing into a black sweater and black jeans. “Abdu Takar is here to take you to safety.”

“Abdu? Here?” asked Khadija leaping from her bed and frantically searching for her own clothes. “Tell me who, Mehemet? Who is after us?”

“Abdu will explain everything to you,” he said, heading for the living room. “C’mon, there’s no time to waste.” A few minutes later, a confused Khadija and her four children, still rubbing the sleep from their eyes, were fully clothed and gathered at the front door. Mehemet turned off all the lights while Abdu and the servants began ushering them outside into the humid blackness. Mehemet clutched the shoulders of his eldest boy and said “You are in charge now, Nadif.”

“What about you?” asked Khadija, turning in desperation to her husband, “Aren’t you coming with us?”

“I have to make my own way,” said Mehemet solemnly, “without you.”

“But Mehemet…” she cried.

“Forgive me, my love, but it has to be this way. I must leave Somalia tonight, alone.”

The tears began to roll from her beautiful eyes. “When will I see you again?”

Mehemet pulled her into a passionate embrace, and whispered in her ear, “We live in a strange world, Khadija. But no matter what happens, I love you. I will always love you. Have faith in us.” With that he released her, dashed over the garden wall and disappeared.

“Quickly,” shouted Abdu, bundling the distraught Khadija and her children through the compound gate. First light was breaking on the horizon, though it was still too dark to see the coast. Khadija looked south, knowing Mehemet would be heading in that direction. Then she heard the sound of an approaching speedboat; they immediately began running across the sand to where a Land Cruiser was waiting by the road, with its engine running but its headlamps turned off. As soon as they reached the car and opened the doors, the interior light came on, alerting the approaching speedboat to their flight. Bullets began flying all around them. The family quickly leapt inside the car and sped away.

The attacking speedboat hit the beach with a loud scrape and a whine, and a band of fighters scrambled ashore, firing their weapons. They tried to pursue the fleeing vehicle on foot but were too late. The fighters then turned and headed for the solitary house on the beach, searching the entire compound for anyone left behind, while their commander stood guard outside the gate. They found nothing, except Mehemet’s M-60 assault rifle.

“Omar, we found this,” said a mujahideen fighter, handing the American weapon and a bandolier of a hundred rounds to his commander, who unravelled his head scarf to get a better look, as did the others. It was clear from their appearances that these were not Yemeni assassins after all, as Abdu Takar said they would be, but Somalian.

“The infidel was expecting us,” said Omar, releasing the safety on the American machine gun and aiming it at the iron gate. He then opened fire and did not stop shooting until he’d expended the entire bandolier. When the smoke finally cleared it became apparent from the pattern of bullet holes in the gate that he’d written the words “al-Shabaab” in Arab script. “The lads.”

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Biography

Italian American Gypsy, born Miami, Florida, 1959. Keen bill fisherman and scuba diver. Formerly worked in "inconspicuous import/export" on the Florida coast. Was a member of the Devini family, Meyer Lansky’s gaming connection in 1950s Havana. Managed their casino in Malindi until his disappearance.

Has no known military record.

During the Second World War, Oceans' grandfather Capitano Luigi Salvatore was stationed in Africa Orientale Italiana, today’s Eritrea, Ethiopia, South Central Somalia and Puntland. Somaliland meanwhile belonged to the British. Capitano Salvatore’s division, the Granatieri di Savoia, under the command of Generale Guglielmo Nasi, was part of the force that conquered British Somaliland in 1940,Italy’s greatest victory in the war. In the following month, while his unit was on patrol in the Sanaag, they stumbled on a valuable antiquity and swore a blood oath never to reveal their discovery to any one. Eight months later, the entire unit got wiped out by British forces in Dongolaas Gorge. Capitano Salvatore is among the many thousands of Italians who died in the Battle of Keren in Eritrea.

In 1987 Oceans' criminal record was mysteriously wiped clean by the DEA, after which his whereabouts became unknown. Five years later he turned up managing his Uncle Bobby's casino on the Kenyan Coast. In August 1998 while scuba diving on the Malindi Watamu bank, he vanished and is presumed dead.

"The good guy's Keyser Soze..."

Ocean's always carried a small .38 snub nose hammerless 5 shot, with a Pachmayr grip and MIC holster, which he kept loaded with +p .38 hollow-point bullets: "Go in like a pencil and come out like a typewriter!"

.38 snub nose

"the last ditch belly gun"

Follow the powder...

It helps if you're an anti-communist when the DEA comes knocking

Capitano Luigi Salvatore

"Everyone in Nonno Luigi's unit took a blood oath never to reveal anything about the treasure they found in the desert. Eight months later, they all got wiped out by British forces in Dongolaas Gorge. My grandfather is among the many thousands of Italians who died in the Battle of Keren in Eritrea."

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The Staff of Musa

"He will have the Staff of Musa and the Ring of Sulayman…Allah will keep him hidden from sight until He wills. Then he will appear and fill the Earth with justice, in the same way it was formerly filled with oppression." - Bihar Al-Anwar

Arguably Pinter's most powerful political play. But it must be read slowly, deliberately seeking out the drama in each and every murky corner of Pinter's pendulous pauses before reading the next lacerating line. What appears to be a paragraph on the page may go on for some time on stage. 'What do you think this is? It’s my finger. And this is my little finger. This is my big finger and this is my little finger. I wave my big finger in front of your eyes. Like this. And now I do the same with my little finger. I can also use both…at the same time. Like this. I can do absolutely anything I like. Do you think I’m mad? My mother did.'

Much of the chatter is one-sided but Nic is no obvious monster, as he demonstrates certain vulnerability and empathy with his victims: a husband, wife and son who are being held prisoner by an unnamed State and tortured. But these are only the tools of a seasoned bureaucratic tyrant, a ploy to make the pain of his victims less bearable when he finally tells them the truth. Or is it the truth?

One For the Road counts among my list of profoundly influential pieces of literature.